


Bread

by mellyb6



Series: Tis a Women's World [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bread and Pastries, missing scene S1Ep8, sad D'Artagnan, someone needs to comfort the boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan has just been told Labarge attacked his farm. He does not take the news well. Luckily, he finds an unexpected shoulder to cry on. Missing piece from Season 1 Episode 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bread

**Author's Note:**

> As always, inspired by Nettlestonell's great Tumblr post about female representation (http://nettlestonenell.tumblr.com/post/114049003597/female-representation) 
> 
> And this prompt: the young girl who brings the bread to the garrison canteen.
> 
> What's English? Not my first language!

First, there's anger. D'Artagnan cannot quite believe what Captain Tréville just told him. Labarge attacked his farm, made an example, destroyed everything he has. Or almost all that he has. Everything he has in Gascony.

Anger and disbelief. How is he supposed to live now that he has close to no money? No income, no commission in the Musketeers. How is he supposed to continue living in Paris when he should already be planning to go down South and attempt to assess the damage? Should he be ashamed that he does not want to make this journey?

Sadness that what his parents built, their entire life, their legacy, it might have been tumbled down, perhaps burnt to the ground?

Anguish at what is about to befall him now. How can he compete in the tournament and prove his value if he cannot pay the entry fee? How can he keep on renting a room at Constance's with no money? Her husband's threat and reproach in the morning still ring in his ears. It makes sense. Everything he said to d'Artagnan makes sense. He had not worried too much about it. There was no need. Not really. Not yet.

The need is overwhelming now. It's all he can think about as he listens to some Musketeers sparring, readying themselves to compete and find out who can be their champion. Soldiers d'Artagnan might never equal, not if he has to find another occupation, find a way to avoid being thrown in the street, penniless and landless.

There are burning tears in his eyes as he slides down to the ground, at the Garrison's gates, not caring if everyone can see him.

D'Artagnan has no idea how long he stays prostrated on the cold ground, mind whirling with broken prospects and possibilities, unknown future and dreaded decisions. It might be hours, or only a couple of minutes and then, there's a shadow looming above him and he has to look up.

“Why so sad?”

“It's nothing,” he sniffs, and lowers his head quickly when he realizes it's Charlotte, the baker's daughter. He's seen her a couple of times around the Garrison, when she brings fresh supply of bread to the kitchen. Usually, she has to fend off a famished Porthos attempting to steal from her.

She's about his age, he thinks. Perhaps a year or two younger. But she's young nevertheless. So is he, after all. He's nothing but a lost farmboy, a country boy lost in a big city, with dreams bigger than what he is capable of accomplishing. Not without any resources.

“Who humiliated you this time?” Even though she seems to be mocking him, letting him know she's aware of much that goes on in the barracks, her tone is gentle and she actually kneels to his side once he sighs heavily.

It's worse than Athos pushing him in the mud while they are duelling. There's a man somewhere in Paris who stole everything he had, and all that the Captain can offer him is Justice. It could drag on for weeks, if not months. D'Artagnan does not care about Justice. Not this type of Justice, anyway.

“It's nothing,” he repeats and he smiles, but his eyes are still red, and somehow, he cannot make her believe his words. He does not believe them himself.

Charlotte puts her full basket on the ground before sitting down next to him. Her dress is dirty and it's torn at the bottom in several places. The shawl on her shoulders has seen better days as well, huge holes in the wool rendering it rather ineffective to fight off the wind. Her brown hair is pulled up on her head, all tangled. There's soot on her cheeks, as if she has been spending too much time close to a fire, which she probably has. She does not mind.

“Bread?” she offers, taking some from under a coarse rag and breaking it in half.

“I've no money to buy it.” She rolls her eyes at the answer. He's hungry and his stomach grumbles when he watches her take a bite.

“So? You'll pay it when you'll have some. Even if I don't think I'll remember.” She winks and d'Artagnan chokes on a laugh.

“I don't know if I'll ever have money again,” he confesses and this time, Charlotte stares at him as if he just announced he has decided to become a monk. It might not be such a bad idea after all. Monks have no need for money. He should ask Aramis about this.

“You've just gone from plain sad to overly dramatic. They really did wound you pride this time, didn't they? Should I threaten them with no baked goods to have them apologize?”

He shakes his head at her resolute proposition. It would be quite effective, he believes, if it was necessary. Which it isn't. He does not suppose she can bribe the King or the Cardinal with bread to have them focused on his case.

“It's not necessary, Charlotte. They're not the problem.”

“Then what is? Have some bread.” She's half-eating her piece, and when she thrusts some in his face, he stops denying her. It's still warm from the oven, it fills his mouth and makes him feel better.

D'Artagnan has eaten two whole baguettes by the time he is done telling her his sad tale. He is in the middle of a long rant about his multiple and hopeless troubles when she interrupts him, slaps his arm.

“Oi! What did you do that for?”

“You're an idiot, d'Artagnan!” she exclaims, and he looks shocked for a second.

“What?”

“You're an idiot, that's all. Of course you're angry and sad. It's your farm we're talking about. Of course you're mad that this man destroyed your property and that you've lost almost everything. But feeling sorry for yourself won't make it better. Do I complain about my life? Do I complain that I have to wake up at the crack of dawn to feed my brothers and sisters, to help my father, to fill in my mother's shoes? Do I complain that I hardly have any time to myself? Do I complain that I look dreadful and haven't changed clothes in weeks? Well, do I?”

“....No?” He does not actually know how to answer because she's so animated and it's the longest conversation they've ever had just the two of us, and she sounds like she is scolding a sibling. Perhaps she is too used to doing it at home, and since he's behaving like a scared little boy, she fell back into the habit.

“Exactly! I don't. And you know why? Eat some more.” He accepts the food, not daring to contradict her. “I know that life isn't easy. I know there are bad days, when everything is overwhelming and I can't see how life could improve. But you know what? That's life. And there are always good days. I'm healthy. I have friends and family. I have people I can look up for help and support, and so do you. My mother's dead, too, I can't remember if I told you.”

She had not.

“You have friends, d'Artagnan. Only a fool would believe that everything is lost forever. Nothing is. Not really. You've had your five minutes of suffering and despair. It's time to go back on your feet and stand up for what you want, be it bread or retribution for the way you've been wronged.”

She takes a deep breath once she is done. D'Artagnan is merely gaping at her, letting her words sink in. Then he shakes his head, and his smile is a genuine one, albeit with a sad edge to it. He pushes himself off the ground, helps her to her feet.

“You're right.”

“Of course, I am. Now, I should deliver this before my father worries that I've been gone too long.”

d'Artagnan has seen Charlotte a couple of times in the past, yet he knew next to nothing about her. Do the others know so much about her life? Do they know she struggles every day, despite the never-ending smile on her face? They only see glimpes of her, she glides through their own busy life. He does not even know where her father's bakery is.

He waits for her while she takes the bread to the kitchen, kicking pebbles in the street, studying the best course of action for his own future. He still has no money, but he knows that it was stupid of him to think that his life in Paris was over. It might be the hardest obstacle he has had to overcome yet, he'll do it no matter what. He always does it.

He escorts Charlotte back to her home, only a couple of streets from the Garrison, and she rewards him with a small pastry, ushering him out before her father can see what she's done.

D'Artagnan munches on it on his way to confront the Cardinal.

 


End file.
